He poked at his bare toes with the tip of his cutlass-sheath.
"Why, maybe—oh, a month this way or maybe that, I'd say—well, troth, if ye put it to me——"
"A many months," she asserted.
"I'll not deny it," he admitted, shamefaced.
"And you from Wicklow, Darby!"
"'Tis no fault o' mine when I couldn't come at the priest."
"Maybe no, if you held your ways in places a priest would frequent; but who would be expecting a priest in a pirate-ship? And what would the priest say did ye go to him and confess what ye ha' done? Oh, Darby, ye will be a monstrous wicked boy!"
Darby was overwhelmed.
"On me soul, I never meant to be! Troth, there's none will ever be repenting better nor me—if I do but get the chance. But do ye see, misthress, it will be the like o' this: Whiles ye lives wi' pirates ye must be main wicked, and aftherwards, when ye break free o' them, there'll be lashin's o' time to make up for it."
He sought to cover his confusion by rounding upon Ben Gunn, who had stood trembling to one side throughout this dialogue.